


No pain, no gain

by playout



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Romance, HP: EWE, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Physical Disability, Slash, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5551175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry works as a Muggle Occupational Therapist. He loves his job, he's <i>good</i> at his job, and he's about to face the greatest challenge of his career. He has had a lot of difficult patients in his life, but none so trying as a certain schoolyard nemesis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo darlings. I've been working on this one for a while. I'm in love with the idea but having a beast of a time doing it justice. I'm not sure how frequent the updates will be but I will finish this sucker one way or another! Pinky promise. 
> 
> **tags and rating may change**

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

Harry's head snapped up from the files he was reading on his way into the exam room, instantly recognizing that voice but disbelieving it still.

" _Malfoy_?" he gaped. "What are you doing here?"

"Leaving," came the terse reply. 

Malfoy's movements were obviously strained, and he tried ineffectually to hide a limp as he attempted to brush past his would-be occupational therapist.

He was dressed passably as a Muggle.

Instinctively, Harry reached out his hand, placing it on Malfoy's tense forearm. "Hang on, then," he urged, mind racing to make sense of the scene. "You came to see me for a _reason_ , didn't you?"

Malfoy drew his arm back sharply, Harry noted that that, too, was not as smooth as a gesture as it should have been. The Slytherin's own long-fingered hand was slightly clawed where it came to rest at his side.

" _No_ ," he retorted, tone dripping acid, "I came to see a highly recommended _Muggle_ occupational therapist by the name of Henry Collins. I don't suppose you know where he is, do you?" He sneered at Harry's name badge (emblazoned with the H. Collins in question).

Harry sighed, fairly certain there could not have been a worse person to stumble upon his secret identity.

"Obviously that's me," he answered, resigned to his fate. He stepped back a pace to give the agitated man some breathing room, bumping his glasses up his nose as he did so. "And it should be equally obvious why I practice under an assumed name."

He peered closely at Malfoy, conveying as much seriousness as he could muster in his expression. "I hope you have enough respect for the work I do not to blab about it to the press," he said (the statement half-plea, half-threat).

Malfoy pursed his lips. "I couldn't care less what you choose to do with your time," he answered testily. Harry resisted the urge to snap back, reminding himself of his surlier patients and the calm, helpful demeanor that usually worked to deflate their bad attitudes. "If you would please refer me to another clinic with a high caliber therapist _who isn't you_ , I will gladly pretend this encounter never took place."

Harry snorted.

"Come now," he dismissed Malfoy's request, lifting a hand and motioning towards the chair Malfoy had been waiting in. "You're already here. And I am rather good at what I do--hence those recommendations you received. Why don't you tell me what brought you in today and we'll see if we can't get you sorted?"

Malfoy's frown deepened. Harry smiled even more broadly. He enjoyed goading the prat.

"What are your qualifications?" Malfoy demanded, with a disdainful arch of his pale brow.

Harry crossed his arms, smirking. "Do you mean to tell me you didn't research Mr. Collins ahead of time?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "Of course I did, you imbecile," he spat, testy as a kneazel. "But given that your very _name_ is a fabrication, I've no reason to believe that your supposed qualifications aren't, as well."

Harry tipped his head in acquiescence and uncrossed his arms, assuming an open posture.

"That's fair," he replied in a deliberately even tone. "But they _are_ accurate." He cleared his throat, feeling odd to be justifying himself to _Malfoy_ of all people. "I've been in practice for five years, with three years of training before that and my own personal experience with occupational therapy besides. I am fully certified to practice."

Malfoy cocked his head. "Your own experience?" he repeated shrewdly.

Harry'd realized his mistake as soon as he made it. That was the spiel he gave to his _Muggle_ patients. _Dammit_. Annoyed with himself, he weighed his options. Malfoy watched him like a hawk all the while.

 _He hadn't meant for me to know about his ailment_ , Harry reasoned.  _Tit for tat is only fair..._

He took a breath. And then another.  Dread clawing at his lungs.

"You know that I quit the Aurors because I was injured, right?"

Malfoy's cold expression went calculating. " _Yes_..." he prompted circumspectly.

Harry kneaded his right leg without thought, the idea of what he was about to say triggering phantom pain.

"The public is not aware of the extent of that injury," he admitted, somewhat stilted. "I didn't quit because I was traumatized or pushed over the edge into mental instability like the papers claimed." A flash of unwelcome memory nearly took his breath away (he might have been a _bit_ traumatized). He steadied himself and continued, "I didn't bother correcting them because it let me recover in peace."

Malfoy's eyes wavered. Harry guessed he wanted to check him over for visible disability but for whatever reason the Slytherin held the eye contact instead. It both compelled Harry to speak and made it harder for him to do so.

He soldiered on.

"I took a blasting curse to the upper leg, losing sixty percent of it in the initial wounding and another five in the healing process," he said clinically. "Honestly, it was miracle I didn't lose the entire thing. But my days of running, jumping, and dodging curses are over."

Now Malfoy allowed himself to look. A pair of vertical creases appeared between his pinched brows. "You don't appear to be missing more than half your leg," he said in flat disbelief. "And I've never seen you so much as limp."

"I do," Harry countered truthfully, having met skepticism like Malfoy's before (just never from a wizard). "Especially at the end of the day or if I've been on my feet a lot or it's damp out. But I spent more than a year in occupational therapy strengthening the remaining muscle and learning how to walk again. So I am a living testament to the fact this works." He gestured expansively let Malfoy know what all he meant by 'this.'

"As for the way it _looks_ , I keep it bandaged when I'm not at home--" he pulled his trouser leg taught, making the lines of the bandages visible through the khaki. "The profile isn't pretty without them," he explained ruefully. In truth, his leg was rather grisly and bothered even him when the sight of it caught him off guard.

Malfoy gave his leg a critical once-over then speared him with a penetrating stare. He considered Harry for what felt like an eternity before finally relenting--with a heavy exhalation--and returning stiffly to the chair.

Feeling equal parts victorious and relieved, Harry sat on a rolling stool across from him, resting on his thighs the pale blue new patient folder he carried. 'M. Billingsley' read the neat black type on the label--meaning Harry wasn't the only one using a false name there. For the sake of their tenuous truce, he refrained from comment.

"So what brings you in today?" he asked (for the second time).

Malfoy studied the wall.

Harry knew the plaster wasn't particularly interesting, but a man was entitled to his pride, especially in so vulnerable a position. He waited quietly for his one-time nemesis to begin.

"Do you know the effect of repeated and sustained Cruciatus on one's nervous system?" Malfoy asked after a minute, startling Harry with the suddenness of the question and the intensity of his storm-grey gaze.

Harry's eyes fell unbidden to the way Malfoy cradled his right hand like an injured bird, and he noted the slight list in what was once perfect posture.

His heart sank.

"Irreparable damage," he answered softly.

Malfoy gave a single, sharp nod.

Harry leaned forward on his elbows, interlacing his fingers in front of him. "In that case, what brought you to me? Or, more accurately, to a Muggle occupational therapist?" 

Malfoy licked his lips before answering, a stalling tactic Harry found far too distracting. "I have reached the limit of what a traditional Healer can do for me," he said. "Mine recommended you as someone who might help me retain the functionality I currently possess and hopefully stave off further deterioration. I was skeptical, of course, but my options are few." He cleared his throat before adding, "A man in my position can't afford to be as... discerning as I would typically prefer."

Harry was overcome with sympathy but he kept a lid on it, knowing intuitively it would put Malfoy's hackles up.

"What are your symptoms?" he asked with proper professional detachment instead.

Malfoy's answer was dry and dispassionate--he'd obviously recited the list before. "Uncontrollable muscle spasms particularly in my face, sporadic involuntary neck and hand movements and/or tremors, rigidity in some muscle groups," here he held up his right hand for Harry's inspection, "numbness and tingling in my extremities, loss of balance, occasional shooting pain."

 _Son of a bitch_. Harry nearly cringed but he managed to smother it. Malfoy went on, none the wiser. "My symptoms have steadily worsened to the point that I can hardly use a quill or wield my wand with any precision, and I can no longer hide my condition. And you will wipe that pitying look off your face this instant or I will march out that door and file a complaint with both your superior and _his_."

Apparently Harry wasn't as good at masking his feelings as he thought. He clenched his teeth in consternation. Malfoy's threat was effective at accomplishing its goal, at least.

Though irritated, Harry could understand where the man was coming from--appearances where everything for a pureblood, and Malfoy was steadily losing control over his. Never mind the dreadful sense of powerlessness, which was surely an important theme in Malfoy's life (if Harry's own experiences were anything to go on).

Well. If he could be gracious and empathetic with other patients going through similar trials, he could do so for Malfoy. He was a professional, after all.

"What treatment strategies have your Healers utilized?" he probed, beginning to jot notes on his intake sheet.

Malfoy sniffed. "Potions, mainly. Of the analgesic and sedative variety. They helped with the worst of it, but I have built up a tolerance--they are no longer effective at safe doses. I am in the process of being weaned from them."

That would explain the relatively sudden emergence of such pronounced symptoms, then. Malfoy had seemed fine at the Ministry's Holiday Gala last year (not that Harry had been paying particularly close attention or anything).

He went through a battery of questions regarding the onset and progression of Malfoy's condition, his nutrition, exercise, and sleeping habits, recreational activities, support systems, and other relevant information. He did a bang-up job maintaining a cooly disinterested expression at Malfoy's admission that he was not currently sexually active. ( _Professional_ , see?).

While he was neither a Healer nor a doctor, Harry had enough experience in both fields to know that Malfoy's symptomatology was not unlike that of an individual with Parkinson's disease. The prognosis was similarly bleak, though in this case, at least, it wasn't likely to worsen much beyond where it was presently, provided Malfoy made an effort to build and maintain his flexibility and muscle control.

Which was where Harry came in.

"I'm sure you're well aware that your condition is incurable," he said, sitting fully upright and dropping his hands into his lap. "We don't need to dwell on that point. The good news is, we can improve things like your pain management, balance and gait, manual dexterity, and endurance, as long as you are willing to work for it. I've had good success with cases like yours in the past."

Malfoy shifted, making the vinyl of the exam table squeak. "What would this 'work' entail?" he asked suspiciously.

Harry set his paperwork aside and faced Malfoy fully. "You've got to be okay with sweating and being pushed," he said frankly. "Sometimes, the exercises will hurt. Frequently, you will attempt a task and fail. It can be humbling, humiliating--it's downright shitty not being able to do things that used to come easily to you, things that other people take for granted. But that's all part of the process. You've got to push past your quitting points." He leveled Malfoy with a challenging stare, adding, "You'll have to trust me."

Something flickered in Malfoy's face. Harry was fairly certain it was an emotional reaction, not a spasm, but wasn't sure to what. Before he had a chance to decipher it, Malfoy'd locked it down.

"Fine," he answered gruffly. "When do we begin?"


	2. Chapter 2

Harry'd sent Malfoy home with an appointment for the following Friday and detailed instructions on how to purchase appropriate athletic wear for their next session, which would include a series of exercises meant to test his strength, flexibility, stamina, and coordination. An unprepared wizard turned loose in a place like Lillywhites could be trouble, especially one like Malfoy who'd probably never stepped foot into such a store, let alone done shopping there.

Harry spent the intervening days fretting, pretending he _wasn't_ fretting, trying to distract himself from fretting, and insisting to anyone who asked that he was perfectly fine, really, and most certainly wasn't fretting ('why would you even think that, Hermione?').

When Malfoy arrived for his appointment--at 3:00 _sharp_ \--Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss or curse whoever had helped the handsome git select his outfit at the sporting goods store. The skintight black Under Armour ensemble left very little to the imagination and was far more flattering than a base layer shirt-and-shorts combo had any right to be. Though Malfoy was skinnier than his lean frame could rightly justify, the long lines of his body were as appealing as ever and a few weeks of proper diet and exercise would lend him that bit of healthfulness he was missing. Harry would see to it that that happened.

Malfoy's hair was slicked back severely, as if he took comfort in exerting control over a part of him that still submitted entirely to his will (as opposed to, say, his wayward right hand, which trembled slightly at his side). Or perhaps it was a throwback to a simpler time. Or force of habit. Or maybe he just liked it that way. For his part, Harry didn't prefer it that way, but it wasn't _his_ hair to govern so he stuffed the pointless objection.

"Mr. Billingsley," he said in greeting, trying for professional cordiality. He offered his hand...and was summarily dismissed with an upturned nose and disdainful sniff. That stung more than he let on (though turnabout was fair play, he supposed, remembering a scrawny pair of first years and a life-alteringly bad first impression).

"Come off it," Malfoy grumbled irritably, crossing his arms before his chest. "Malfoy's fine. I'm not worried about any of these old codgers alerting the Prophet to my whereabouts." He was looking about the facilities and the handful of other patients therein, many of whom were, in fact, elderly (and utterly uninterested in the likes of a toffy blonde with a sour attitude and a limp, Harry thought).

Well that was all well and good for him, but Harry _was_ worried. He had a good thing going at the Centre for Applied Physiotherapy and he didn't care to have unscrupulous reporters or obsessive fans showing up and disrupting his practice just because Malfoy reneged on his dubious word.

"In that case," he said as affably as he could manage, "call me Henry." He raised his brow at Malfoy, imploring him to not be a wanker for once and just go with it.

"Whatever," Malfoy muttered with a shrug, as if he couldn't care less about Harry or his wants.

Twat.

He spent a few moments looking around the room, ignoring Harry completely. Harry took a steadying breath and tried to see it through his eyes.

First impression: Very Muggle.

It was a large space, well-maintained and modern, painted an inoffensive beige and sparsely decorated with nature photos and unassuming house plants. A single wall was entirely mirrored (and a right pain to clean at the end of the day) with a ballet barre running the length of it. Another was mostly windows, lending enough natural light to take the chill out of the medical-grade fluorescent lighting that buzzed overhead.

The Centre was outfitted with a wide array of state-of-the-art exercise machines and office equipment, more than half of which Harry wagered Malfoy'd never encountered before (particularly given the skeptical, slightly terrified way he looked at everything). The poor sod was the very definition of a fish out of water.

As if he could sense the direction of Harry's thoughts, Malfoy scrutinized his reflection in the mirror with a pinched frown, arms outstretched. "I still feel as though you and the shopgirl are having me on," he said. "This can't possibly be how Muggles dress for sport."

Through sheer force of will, Harry prevented his eyes from traveling any lower than Malfoy's waist. Unfortunately, that wasn't enough to stop him from noticing the way Malfoy's nipples were visible through the clingy material of his shirt or wondering what else might be seen if he let himself look.

"It's not the only way," he responded carefully after first clearing his throat to dislodge the unpleasant dryness that had settled in. He gestured to a tall, lanky kid in basketball shorts and a loose-fitting tee (Adrian Allard, 16, promising young point guard--torn ACL) doing agility drills with a ladder, and then to a slow-moving pensioner wearing a dull grey sweatsuit (Harold Larsen of Chelsea, 62, hip replacement) huffing and puffing on a stationary bike. "It's perfectly fine, though."

Malfoy fidgeted with the hem of his shirt and Harry--in a sudden burst of insight atypical for him--realized he was seeing an emotion he'd never before witnessed on the posh Pureblood: he was self-conscious.

"Hey," he said in a matey sort of way (and feeling awkward for it). "You look great. Really. Not that anyone needs to in a place like this, but you do." Malfoy met his eyes in the mirror and Harry went on, as if paying the man a compliment was something he did all the time and the utter strangeness of it wasn't making his palms itch. "Your clothes are top-of-the-line, high performance, and perfectly coordinated. Right down to the £200 Nike's you're sporting." He nodded at the all-black trainers in question and wondered just how much Malfoy'd spent on his clothes; the shopgirl must have had a ruddy field day with him.

"Anyway," he continued, fixing his glasses from where they'd slipped down his nose, "if anyone bothers to notice you, they'll probably think you're a semi-pro footballer or something. But you'll find most of the folk in here to be focussed on their own business, not yours."

What looked suspiciously like the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Malfoy's lips before he stiffened them. Something fluttered in Harry's chest. (Indigestion probably--he'd had Thai for lunch.)

"And what of your dress, then?" Malfoy said contrarily, sneering at Harry's business casual attire. However his tone lacked the acid Harry had come to expect. It was almost...playful.

Harry peered down at his own outfit--practical slacks and a button-down Oxford shirt in mint green, fairly standard for most therapists there. Maybe a tad dressier than what he usually wore, but his other clothes were in the laundry (or suddenly didn't fit right for some odd reason), so.

"I don't actually have to do any of the exercises," he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall. Maybe if he _looked_ relaxed he'd start to feel that way. "I just have to show you how. And I get patients who wouldn't take me seriously if I dressed any more casually, even if it would make my job easier."

Malfoy hummed with a skeptical squint but let the matter drop. His eyes seemed to linger on Harry's trousers, however. What was wrong with them? They weren't wrinkled--Harry'd ironed them. A quick visual inspection revealed that they didn't appear to be harbouring any renegade stains either. In fact, he couldn't determine a single possible cause for Malfoy's critical look, and yet...

Feeling no small measure of consternation, he attempted moving the conversation into safe, familiar territory.

"Let's get you started on the stair climber to warm your muscles up before trying some stretches," he said, indicating the clunky black and silver machine to his right. He punched a few buttons on the display panel to set it for an easy 5-minute warm up.

Harry the therapist was a confident man. He knew what he was doing. He didn't second guess himself when pompous prats raised their eyebrows at him.

"Stairs?" Malfoy repeated, a petulant curl to his lip.

"Stairs," Harry confirmed, no nonsense.

He installed Malfoy on the machine, surreptitiously explaining how it worked and assuring him that it was perfectly safe, voice well below what any of the room's other occupants might overhear. Malfoy's grip on the foam-covered supports was white knuckled.

"Go on then," Harry prompted, giving him a nudge.

Malfoy swallowed and gave it a go. After a few overly-cautious, ungainly steps, he got the hang of it--as Harry knew he would--and set to climbing an invisible tower, a frown of concentration of his face. (The man, Harry was learning, had a great many frowns, but at least he was game to try.) He leaned heavily on the arm bars for support--not because his legs couldn't take the whole of his weight, but because he was no longer sure on his feet.

It was hard to watch.

"When was the last time you fell?" Harry asked, knowing intuitively that was the source of his misgivings.

Malfoy's head whipped up, shock writ clear on his expressive features. Sooner or later he was going to have to accept that Harry wasn't just masquerading as a therapist--he actually was good at his job.

Smoothing his expression and fixing his gaze ahead of him, Malfoy answered coolly, "Tuesday last." The line of his shoulders was tense, even as they bobbed in time with his steps.

"Down the stairs?" Harry ventured.

A pause. "Yes."

"How bad was it?"

"Minor bruising. Twisted ankle." Malfoy cleared his throat quietly before adding, "My pride suffered the worst of it."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. I imagine it would."

Silence fell between them as the machine whirred in time with Malfoy's movements. Flexion at Malfoy's jaw and temple betrayed that he was gritting his teeth.

Harry wanted to get him talking again. Not only was it a novel challenge, but conversation often helped patients take their minds off the tedious and difficult tasks he made them do.

Remembering how well the ploy had worked last time, he took a step into Malfoy's periphery, near enough that the man could turn to look at him if he wanted without compromising his balance, and prepared himself for a confession of sorts.

"I was supposed to use a cane during the first several months of my recovery," he admitted, swallowing a grimace. Malfoy watched him closely out of the corner of his eye, hawklike and intent. "I hated the thing. It made me feel like a cripple." _And reminded me of your father_ , he choose not to say. "I left it in its box under my bed and hobbled around using the walls and furniture for support, too stubborn to do otherwise."

He scratched the back of his neck where it prickled under Malfoy's scrutiny; he'd turned to regard him fully while he spoke. "That worked all right for a few weeks," he continued with casualness he didn't feel, "until one day it didn't. My leg completely gave out under me. Godric, it hurt like a motherfucker. Almost as bad as the original injury. Maybe worse. At least then I had shock on my side."

Malfoy'd startled at the coarse language. Harry took a small measure of satisfaction at getting a rise out of the man, but of course Malfoy hid it quickly. Harry gave a rueful half smile.

"I had to drag my sorry arse up a full flight of stairs and across the hall to get to the Floo. Thankfully Hermione answered right away, but Merlin's tits, the scolding I got after she made sure I wasn't on death's door... A _howler_ would have been kinder."

Malfoy's eyes sparkled.

"I can only imagine," he opined. There was something almost like fondness beneath the words. Harry warmed at the sound of it.

Then after a beat, "What exactly is the lesson you hope to impart with your sad, cautionary tale?"

There was no bite to the question. A little mistrust--but that was to be expected--but mostly Malfoy sounded genuinely curious.

"I set my recovery back at least three months because of my stupid pride," Harry answered frankly, holding Malfoy's thoughtful gaze. "I hope you can learn from my mistakes and not repeat them. I guarantee it'll save you some hardship. And if your medical professional tells you to do something," here he pointed unabashedly at himself, "you should do it."

Malfoy rolled his eyes but it was with a suppressed chuckle.

For a brief moment, Harry worried about his own balance as the world seemed to tilt on its axis. He decided to go set up the next exercise and use the time to clear his head. It was suddenly rather difficult to string two thoughts together standing that close to the object that had been dominating them of late.

"When the timer goes off, you'll be finished with this one," he explained, showing Malfoy the digital countdown. "Let both steps sink all the way to the ground before climbing down." Didn't need the man injuring himself further trying to dismount the unfamiliar machine. "Rest a minute afterwards, then come meet me on the mat." He pointed to the large blue rectangle in the far corner of the room. "And holler if you need me."

Malfoy's expression said clearly there would be no hollering of any kind from his quarter.

Pity.

 _Stop that_ , Harry told himself sternly. Stretches were next on the agenda and he was in dire need of a break before that particular test of resolve. Especially with his traitorous mind saying fuck all to propriety and professionalism.

He was in the middle of untangling a multi-coloured set of resistance bands when a drawled, "He's _cuuute_ ," interrupted his thoughts. Janine (42, housewife, rotator cuff surgery) sidled up next to him with a knowing smirk.

He gave her a quelling look. "Don't you have weights to lift?" he retorted smartly, dropping the bands to the mat with a soft and bouncy thud. 

While he liked the woman, Janine was a shameless flirt who spent far more time sticking her freckled nose into other people's business than focussing on her own healing.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, snickering, but Harry could see the wheels turning as she looked between him and Malfoy. Could be trouble: Janine had a decidedly _Weasley_ vibe to her, right down to the well-meaning meddling (and penchant for mayhem).

Nevertheless, she blew him a kiss and sauntered to the weight bench, chestnut brown ponytail bobbing behind her. After selecting the lightest set of dumbbells, she caught Harry's eyes in the mirror and gave him a saucy wink. He snorted. George Weasley in a sports bra, she was.

Shaking his head in fond exasperation, he glanced up just in time to see Malfoy turn away, expression dark as a thunder cloud.

_What got his knickers in a twist?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, indeed? ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guuuys, this story is hard to write! *whine* That's what I get for trying something that isn't smutty fluff. I hope you're enjoying it all the same.

Somehow Harry survived the next 45 minutes with Malfoy, likely aided by the fact the surly Slytherin wouldn't dare draw his wand in a Muggle establishment. When Harry'd finally grown frustrated enough to ask him what in Merlin's name was wrong, Malfoy snapped that he was in a great deal of pain and that a goodly portion of it was _his_ fault.

The criticism had fangs as hot as an ashwinder's and the burn was just as sharp.

It was also untrue.

Well, not an outright lie--Malfoy's body was clearly protesting the paces Harry put it through--but it wasn't the reason for the sudden return of his ill-temper. One didn't have to be a retired Auror to figure that out (though it probably helped). Malfoy'd been fine on the stair climber, cordial even, but somewhere in the three minutes between Harry leaving him and his arrival at the mat, his uncharacteristic goodwill had dried up entirely. He was sullen and withdrawn for the remainder of the session, at turns snappish or completely silent despite Harry's best efforts to return to the brief almost-pleasant conversation they'd shared earlier.

After twenty minutes of vain attempts resulting in nothing more than irritating the git further, Harry gave it up for a bad job and focussed on getting through what was left of the day's agenda. The only silver lining to the whole trying ordeal was the fact it helped tremendously in surviving the stretches and balancing exercises with his dignity intact. Good Godric, the sight of Malfoy bending over to press his forehead to his knee nearly killed him.

His flexibility was still quite good in spite of everything.

His balance, on the other hand, needed work.

He nearly stumbled in standing from his last pose of the afternoon-- _downward dog_ , because apparently Hermione was right about Harry being a masochist--and Harry used both hands to steady him, reflexes faster than his thought processes.

Malfoy jerked out of his grasp abruptly and put two feet of space between them, glowering.

"I'm fine, Potter," he spat.

Harry snapped, well past the limits of his patience.

People _liked_ him. He was bloody likable. Delightful, even. And he'd gone out of his way to be polite and charitable towards a man who'd never been anything but a bastard to him and for what? Not a bleeding _ounce_ of gratitude or goodwill.

"You're not bloody fine, Malfoy!" he shouted, taking an angry step closer to the blonde. "That's why you're here!"

At Malfoy's involuntary flinch and subsequent wary, wide-eyed expression, Harry came to his senses.

Face heating with embarrassment and the remnants of the anger that had spurred his outburst, he forced himself to calm. His breath whistled through his nose as he fought to keep himself from panting. He couldn't bear to survey the room to see who might be watching their little spat but the smart money was on everyone (and most especially Janine). Overhead, the lights buzzed harshly.

"Look," he said, measuring his tone, "I know you don't like me and you'd probably rather be anywhere but here, but I'm trying, ok? If it's that bloody miserable for you to have to be in the same room as me, I can refer you to someone else."

Malfoy's posture stiffened, this time for something other than his faulty synapses. Seconds passed in which he stared unblinkingly, chest rising and falling with his own laboured breathing (a combination of exertion and dismay the most likely cause).

"I don't want someone else," he answered tightly some moments later. He looked away as he said it, withdrawing in upon himself and crossing one arm over his skinny chest, locking it in the opposite elbow.

Well that was a departure from his original stance, now wasn't it?

Harry barely resisted scoffing. Malfoy certainly hadn't been acting as if he wanted him for his therapist.

After another minute and with what seemed a great deal of effort, Malfoy returned his gaze to Harry, his expression contrite, if conflicted. "My behaviour will be improved at our next session," he promised haltingly, stunning Harry with the unexpected apology (of sorts).

He probably shouldn't have been as pleased by it as he was. Regardless, Harry felt a little thrill that Malfoy wanted his help badly enough to admit he had been an unpleasant arse for much of the past hour.

It seemed momentous.

"Good," he replied with a half-smile and a nod, stepping back a pace to give Malfoy room to breathe. "I'm going to hold you to that. And it's _Henry_ ," he reminded him firmly (the smile easing the censure, he hoped).

Some of Malfoy's tension loosened at that and he looked as though he considered returning Harry's smile before he thought better of it.

"Right. Henry."

He dropped his arms to his sides and shuffled minutely where he stood, all too aware of their audience.

Harry did a quick inspection and counted at least four individuals attending to the scene. All but Janine pretended not to have been watching. She--cheeky bint--gave a double thumbs up. Harry waved her off.

"You did well today," he declared sincerely, leading Malfoy to the receptionist's area at the front of the building (and away from prying eyes). Malfoy made a muffled sound of protest, his limp considerably worsened from how it had been at the start of the session. His pale brows furrowed.

Sympathy pains staggered Harry's gait, a slow burn in the remnants of his upper thigh. He remembered his own days of shaky, sweaty agony. Hard to forget, that.

"I know it hurts," he murmured, meaning the bone-deep ache that came from physically pushing oneself as Malfoy had done. As he'd been instructed to do. "That'll get worse before it gets better. But it does get better, in time." Small consolation in the midst of it, he knew. He pushed a hand through his hair, regretting his inability to offer comfort of any value.

"It'll take more pain than this to scare me off," Malfoy said bravely. A fleeting grimace at the end of it betrayed the severity of what he was already feeling, though.

"I'm sure," Harry replied unironically. Merlin knew Malfoy'd been through worse.

He eyed the taller man surreptitiously as they made slow progress toward the appointment desk. With a limp that bad, a cane wouldn't be remiss, but he was not ready to broach the subject. Malfoy already bore more than a passing resemblance to his father--with his hair grown out and hanging loose about his ears, knocked free as it was by his exertions. At least Narcissa's graceful features lent him an air of elegance the senior Malfoy had never possessed. Always pretty, Malfoy had grown into a strikingly handsome man, time and trials etching character into a face that had once been unblemished porcelain. In spite of his infirmity, he carried himself with dignity and poise. What Harry once would have called arrogance, he now knew was something far more nuanced: that complex, compelling Pureblood pride that had enabled Malfoy to survive the unimaginable horrors he'd suffered at the hands of Riddle and his cronies.

To do more than survive, really. He'd _fought_ ; actively resisted in sly, subtle ways, aided by his Godfather before Snape's untimely end. He'd been found out, of course. A person could only undermine one of the world's most accomplished Legillimens for so long before something gave. Harry guessed that would have been the beginning of Malfoy's current struggles, but he'd never ask. Some things were best left unspoken.

At any rate, the truth of Malfoy's brief tenure as a Death Eater came to light during his trial before the Wizengamot and was the chief reason he avoided time in Azkaban. No matter his motives, he was no friend of Voldemort. And Harry's estimation of him had risen considerably since then. There'd just never been a good opportunity to tell him so.

Before now, anyway.

He swallowed audibly. Malfoy glanced in his direction and caught him looking. Harry quickly averted his eyes, shame colouring his cheeks. Which was absurd. He was the man's therapist, for crying out loud. He was _supposed_ to look.

But try telling that to his guilty conscience.

 _How far away is the bloody front desk?_ It felt like it was a mile, not twenty feet of office-grade carpet and crown moulding. And because Harry's uncanny good fortune was a fickle mistress indeed, Sarah was busy with a caller when they finally arrived at the appointment counter. Because _of course_ she was.

Anxious and feeling trapped, Harry filled the space with idle chatter, pretending he wasn't tied up in knots over the maddeningly silent man at his side.

"Our next appointment will be Monday," he said needlessly, leaning his hip against the counter and facing Malfoy at a somewhat less intimidating angle. "That should give you enough time to recover from today. And you're seeing Nancy tomorrow, yeah?" Malfoy tipped his head in confirmation. "You'll like her," Harry asserted. "She's sweet as treacle but doesn't take shit from anyone. You'll learn that sooner rather than later if you try to cop an attitude with her. But she's brilliant with all the fine motor stuff. She'll give you exercises to do at home and I can make some suggestions for how to modify them for a quill or wand. But when it comes to the work you and I are doing, no practicing on your own, ok? You need supervision for now."

Malfoy watched him avidly through the entire ridiculous spiel, amusement plain. He didn't say a single word.

Harry felt an utter berk.

 _Hang up, Sarah, hang up,_ he pleaded silently until she did and saved him from himself. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" she chirped, smiling brightly. Thank Godric.

Whilst Malfoy was busy making his appointments, Harry snagged a piece of scratch paper and pen and jotted something down.

"Here," he said, handing Malfoy the note once he'd finished with the receptionist.

Malfoy took it and inspected it closely. "What's this?" he frowned. (Pinched brows, slightly downturned lips... Confusion; Harry was getting good at identifying them.)

"The name of an over-the-counter Muggle painkiller," he answered, tucking the pen into his lapel in case he wanted it later. "You'll need it. They're not nearly as effective as potions, but it'll take the edge off, at least. And because they operate by a different mechanism than magic, they won't be affected by your tolerance or interfere with your withdrawal process. You can pick up a bottle at Tesco on your way home."

Malfoy looked doubtful, but he pocketed the slip all the same. Harry hoped he'd actually use it.

"Thanks," he offered simply, turning to leave. He paused at the doorway, hand on the lever. "See you Monday...Henry," he said over his shoulder, gracing Harry with a fleeting smile before hurrying into the waning afternoon light.

"Ta," Harry replied. To the door. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Boys and Ghouls! In honor of the holiday, I have risen from the grave to actually publish a chapter. Happy Halloween!

Malfoy kept his promise. 

He wasn't exactly what Harry would call a new man, but his attitude was improved and his behaviour with it. 

It was a welcome change.

They managed to establish a comfortable--albeit tenuous--working relationship over the next several sessions. Malfoy remained far more quiet than Harry remembered him ever being in school, but that had been a lifetime ago. The important thing was that he kept coming back. And he was _trying_.

Little by little, Malfoy's strength was returning, and with it a...not quite _fondness_ , but something like it. Directed at Harry. Malfoy's infrequent quips and even rarer smiles came more easily. (Not _actually_ easy, mind you--Malfoy often looked like he was sucking lemons after letting one slip--but it happened more and more often as he gained confidence with the exercises Harry put him through.) The likelihood of a gibe also increased in direct proportion to how hard Harry pushed him. 

_"You wouldn't be half as cheerful if you were on this infernal machine instead of me, Collins."_

_"Do something different with your hair today, Henry? Set a whole pack of wild clabberts on it instead of just the one?"_

_"Never took you for a sadist, Henry. Gryffindors are usually so...vanilla."_

The last one had been delivered through panting breaths while Malfoy struggled with his nemesis, the trampoline. He'd beamed--full-on _beamed_ \--when he finally managed to balance on one leg on the unstable surface, a feat that had taken him three weeks to accomplish. Harry was so overcome with the immediate and powerful urge to snog him senseless over that smile that he'd done the only thing he could think of to distract himself--throwing a heavy medicine ball directly at Malfoy's chest, his only warning being a hastily called, "Catch!"

Oh, but Malfoy _had_ caught it. 

And remained upright, albeit a bit wobbly. 

And he had such a triumphant look in his eyes as he clutched the ball to himself that Harry couldn't be arsed to care about the soppy grin he wore in response. That is, until Malfoy loosed the witticism with enough sexual undertone in his leer to make Harry splutter. 

Malfoy cackled and chucked the ball back at him with no warning whatsoever. 

Harry smiled to remember it as he made his way back from lunch at the local sandwich shop. The walk afforded him both the opportunity to stretch his tired legs and enjoy a bit of fresh air. Daydreaming was a bonus. 

Not that he was daydreaming about Malfoy. Certainly not. Perish the thought. 

...The blonde had simply occupied his thoughts somewhat frequently of late. 

...Rather a lot, if he were being honest.

Frowning, Harry adjusted the strap of his satchel so it rested more comfortably on his shoulder and considered just what it was about Malfoy that got under his skin. A dog barked madly somewhere in the distance but he took no notice of it. His thoughts were elsewhere. 

Malfoy was unpredictable. Waspish. Prone to fits of temper and bitter cold that left Harry feeling alternately dumbfounded, irritable, and on edge. 

But he was also resilient. Hard-working and determined. Surprisingly humble in spite of his upbringing. Charming even, on rare occasions. 

And Merlin's tits was he fit. Criminally so. 

Harry wondered how different that was from the boy he had known in school. (Not the bit about the looks. He'd always been too pretty for Harry's comfort. But the personality…)

Harry thought he'd known Malfoy--stuck up, spoiled, petty, vain. Classic Slytherin. But then he'd gone and opposed Riddle and paid a terrible price for it. The boy Harry thought he knew wouldn't have risked himself like that. He was a sniveling coward, puffing and posturing behind his burly goons and preening for the likes of Pansy Parkinson. Malfoy was bright, certainly. As capable on the pitch as he was in the classroom. But his personality left much to be desired. 

So what changed? And when?

For his own part, Harry was a far cry from the brash, angry boy he'd once been--

" ** _Shit_ -buggering-FUCK**!"

Usually. 

He came up short in his steps, halting suddenly and ducking behind a wall, hoping against hope he hadn't been spotted. Or heard. 

Cyril Fucking Burnbridge was camped out at the Centre's front door. 

Harry ground his teeth, the stone of the wall rough beneath his palms. He counted breaths. 

 _Bastard probably thinks his disguise clever_ , he scoffed. 

It was true that the ankle-length trench and wide-brimmed fedora hid Burnbridge's identity rather effectively, but the fact it was a balmy summer afternoon and the bleeding idiot was using a copy of the Daily Prophet (complete with moving photographs) to shield himself from the unforgiving sun was something of a giveaway. 

Harry hated him with a passion usually reserved for Dark Lords. 

The reporter--a protégé of Skeeter's--had dogged his steps for years, suspecting (rightly) that Harry wasn't the unhinged wealthy shut-in most people believed him to be. Until now, he'd never managed to prove his pet theory but he must have gotten the scoop of his career to be at Harry's muggle workplace that day. 

Harry's blood boiled when he thought of the most likely snitch. _So much for turning over a new leaf._  He mused bitterly over just how many galleons Malfoy must have been paid for the tip, the afternoon's idle fantasies turning to ash on the spot. 

As Harry was still a few metres out, Burnbridge didn't hear his bitten-off expletive. He wanted desperately to use the opportunity to sneak up on the scrupleless bottom-feeder and teach him a lesson about privacy and respect (and why it's not a good idea to cross wand-carrying ex-Aurors with a history of impulsiveness and excessive use of force, as Burnbridge himself was fond of citing in his hack 'reports') but that would blow his cover. Even an unseen hex would be linked back to him eventually. There was a chance, albeit slim, Burnbridge didn't know for certain Harry worked there. No sense confirming his suspicions. 

With a last regretful glance, Harry snuck around the building and into the back entrance, bolting the door behind him. 

What now?

He smiled grimly as an idea took shape. 

Sarah, thankfully, was only too happy to allow him the use of her phone--she'd never seen him so ruffled (and that was saying something considering his recent preoccupation with a particularly rufflesome individual). Harry promptly called the police to report suspicious activity and took great satisfaction in spying a harried-looking reporter scuttling off some twenty minutes later, after having been questioned at length by two brawny bobbies (who were none too keen on grown men leering at unaccompanied schoolchildren). Back to whatever hole he crawled out of, Harry thought smugly. 

Unfortunately, Sarah proved harder to shake. 

"But who _is_  he, Henry?" she insisted, big brown eyes a mix of worry and interest. She hadn't believed his lame, "I don't know--I just had a bad feeling about him," for one second. The intrigue had attracted the attention of damn near everyone in the building (why did that always happen to him?). Several other therapists had gathered at the receptionist desk. There was no way he was getting out of this without a better lie. 

He sighed heavily. Malfoy may not have cost him his job--yet--but he was about to cost him his pride. 

"He's an ex, okay?" he 'admitted' reluctantly, with enough real embarrassment to be convincing. 

Sarah tutted sympathetically. Megan and Jenny pretended to do the same, smothering greedy smiles at the quality gossip fodder. Eric excused himself with a jaunty, "That's my cue!" (He had a strict 'No Office Drama' policy that Harry kept hoping would catch on with the rest of their colleagues.)

As for why the _police_ needed to be involved, Harry offered the vague, "He doesn't know how to take 'No' for an answer," and silently begged the women to leave it at that. He fidgeted in his seat, never having gotten used to being the centre of attention despite all the practice.   

Sarah--sweet, lovely Sarah--patted his arm and shooed the other two away. "You have patients waiting" she chided, unconcerned by the twin sour expressions that earned her. "Harpies," she muttered behind their retreating backs. 

"I know all about jilted lovers," she confided to Harry a moment later, giving him a bracing squeeze and commiserating smile. Harry briefly worried she was about to tell him something he was woefully under-qualified to hear, but, thankfully, she settled back to her own work. "You really should think about getting a restraining order, love," she suggested kindly over her monitor, gifting him with the perfect out. 

"You're probably right," he replied, pretending to think it over. "I think I will." Decisively now. "Today." He was already up and putting his things in his bag. " _Right now_." 

"That's the spirit," Sarah cheered, nodding her approval. "We can manage without you for an afternoon." Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up the appointment grid. She had his schedule cleared almost before he was even finished packing. (Harry made up his mind to talk to the Director about a well-deserved raise for the woman.)

He made his way to the nearest Apparation point, footsteps forceful—and ever-so-slightly off-tempo—against warm pavement.

With Burnbridge, _the rat_ , thus disposed, it was time to deal with the snake. 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Harry marched up the marble steps of the Manor's entry, riding high on a wave of righteous indignation.

He didn't have a ghost of a plan (unless giving Malfoy a piece of his mind counted).

Though he had no idea what he would say or do, when had that ever stopped him? 

He hammered the heavy oak door with his fist, shouting, "Open up, Malfoy!" through the ancient wood. He listened for a response and heard nothing, so he repeated the command, even more forcefully this time. "I _said_ , open up!"

A harried looking house elf yanked open the door just as Harry raised his fist again. 

The elf adjusted the knot of his pillowcase-cum-tunic from where it had slipped off one bony shoulder and glowered, the frightful expression incongruous with his tiny stature. 

"Master is wanting to know the purpose of your visit," he rasped, tone stern. "Master is not expecting company." 

Harry seethed. "Yeah, well, he's got it," he answered tightly. He hadn't been expecting company, either, had he? That was rather the reason for his visit. "Tell your _master_ ," he used the word disdainfully, "I’ve got a bone to pick with him and I won't be leaving until I'm satisfied."

The elf sniffed, then promptly shut the door.

Erring, for once, on the better side of caution, Harry resisted forcing himself inside. But only just. He wondered if and when the door would be opened again and how he would make good on his threat if Malfoy called his bluff. Somewhere around the time he started eyeing a nearby trellis to assess its viability as a ladder, the door opened once more, this time by the "Master" in question. 

"I didn't realize you made house calls, Potter," he drawled, pulling a silvery housecoat closed about his chest. Harry took in his uncharacteristic state of dishevelment, albeit mild, and deduced he’d been awakened from a nap (serves him right, he thought). "That would've saved me a great deal of hassle.”

Harry noted that Malfoy kept his hold on the door handle and made no move to invite him in, belying the quirked smile at the edges of his thin lips. For all his casual air, he seemed ready for conflict.

That made two of them.

"It's not something I've done before,” Harry spat indignantly, “but I may have to start if the bleeding Prophet continues to stalk me at my workplace."

Malfoy said nothing. Harry could practically see his thought process--it was obvious the moment he put two and two together.  

"Oh that's _rich_ ," Malfoy sneered, grey eyes narrowed to slits. "You think _I_ sent them." It wasn't a question.

"Didn't you?" Harry fired back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from doing something regrettable with them. "The timing is rather convenient."

Malfoy looked like he was seriously considering slamming the door in Harry's face. Harry, for his part, was certain he could force his way inside if he had to, as long as he could do it before Malfoy got the wards back up. A whole team of Aurors hadn’t been able to crack them when they’d gone to arrest the Manor’s occupants in the aftermath of the War; fortunately for them, Narcissa and her son persuaded Lucius to surrender for the sake of their impending trials. In the end, it didn’t curry him any favour, but it helped the cause of the other two plenty.

"Right," Malfoy snapped, bracing himself on the doorjamb. "Because I have nothing better to do than, _what?_ Pretend I can barely wipe my own arse in order to trade your precious secrets to the very newspaper that spent more than a year dragging my name through the mud and  still refers to me as a 'one-time Death Eater'?" He drew himself up to his full height, near shaking with fury. "Grow up, Potter. It's long past due."

The words stung like a slap.

Harry's sense of purpose deflated somewhat in the face of such conviction, but Malfoy could be a convincing actor, he knew. The man had fooled one of the world's most accomplished legillimens for months, after all; it shouldn’t be that hard for him to feign innocence now.

Harry was just about to say something to that effect when Malfoy continued, tone icy:

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe it wasn't you they were looking for? Or are you too self-centred for the thought even to have occurred to you?" 

In point of fact, that...hadn't occurred to him.  

A muscle in Malfoy’s cheek began to spasm. Harry ignored it. A niggle of doubt began to gnaw at him but he ignored that, too. It was just like a Slytherin to use misdirection and guilt to shift the blame. How many times had Malfoy used that very tactic in school? Too many to count.

Harry tried to think of a clever response but his thoughts were muddled—it would be so much easier to simply hex the git and be done with it.  

Malfoy apparently took his silence for encouragement. Harry noted absently that his posh accent went harder on the consonants when his dander was up. "My sudden departure from the public eye has been a favoured topic of conversation among the town gossips, the current leading theory being that I've developed a rather nasty drug habit." Here he paused, perhaps waiting to see if Harry would accuse him of the same. (Harry was angry, but he wasn't suicidal; he said nothing.) Malfoy went on, "Features about spoilt playboy millionaires with too much time on their hands and questionable morals sell papers. You are rather well acquainted with this notion, are you not?" he quipped. 

He was. That was why he was on Malfoy's doorstep, thankyouverymuch. 

"I certainly am," Harry retorted smartly, having found his voice at last. "But unlike you, none of the rubbish they print about _me_ is true."

He regretted the words almost as soon as they'd left his mouth.

He didn't even mean them, not really. They were the remnant of a petty schoolyard rivalry best left forgotten and the fact he felt out-classed in a battle of wits against the blonde.  

Malfoy didn't appear likely to forget them anytime soon. 

His snapped his mouth closed with an audible clack, his face shuttered as if it had wards of its own. He then slammed the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. It rang with justified finality as a shimmering curtain of magic flowed over the Manor's exterior. 

.....

Harry replayed the conversation over and over in his mind as he made his way down the long gravel drive, searching in vain for hints at Malfoy’s involvement with Burnbridge’s sudden appearance and trying to discern what, if anything, he should have done differently back up at the house.

A haughty peacock disrupted his thoughts, shrieking down at him from its perch in a nearby apple tree. He glared at it, his mood was as black as the poncy bird's feathers were white. 

He needed help. 

He needed his friends. 


	6. Chapter 6

"You did _what_?!"

Hermione looked at him, not for the first time, like Riddle's failed assassination attempt might have caused some form of permanent brain damage.

"Harry. Do you seriously believe that _Malfoy_ was the one who alerted the press? After weeks of humiliation and struggle in your office?  A muggle physiotherapy clinic? What in the world has he to gain?"

Pacing the length of the Burrow's crowded living room with an excess of agitation, Harry said the first thing that came to him.

"Galleons."

It sounded stupid even to his ears and he received instant confirmation of that notion when Hermione's eyes bulged nearly out of her skull.

"He's rich!" she exclaimed, as if it were obvious. (Which, to be fair, it was...or at least, he supposed, should have been.) She dropped the massive stack of books she'd been holding since his unannounced arrival five minutes earlier onto the coffee table. There was a resounding thwack and dust billowed out from the yellowed pages; both Harry and the table groaned.

He took his pacing to the other side of the room in a fruitless attempt to avoid her censure.

"To embarrass me, then," he ventured, knowing full-well he sounded like a right arse but feeling too committed at this point to quit.

"Seriously? _Seriously_?!" Hermione's hands were firmly on her hips now, her eyebrows at the height of disbelief.

Harry straightened his spine. "It's not like he's never done it before!" he argued hotly, feeling defensive and unfairly like _he_ was the bad guy here. Which was all kinds of backwards--he was the ruddy victim!

Hermione sighed, the fight gone out of her.

"Grow up, Harry," was all she said then, with no small measure of disappointment.

Harry had an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu.

"Oi! What's all this fuss about?" Ron strolled into the room, a brown paper bag in one hand and a flaky, half-eaten croissant in the other dropping crumbs on both his magenta robes and the floor. He wore a look of cautious curiosity--he was understandably weary to pick a side whenever his best friend and wife were going at it.

"Oh nothing," Hermione answered sarcastically from her end of the lopsided triangle they now formed. "Just Harry falsely accusing and offending one of his patients. A highly vulnerable one, I might add." Though she was speaking to Ron, she speared Harry with a punishing glare for that last bit.

Ron didn't miss a beat. "Malfoy," he stated matter-of-factly, plopping down into the ancient sofa and looking to Harry for details. "Who started it then?" he asked around a mouthful of pastry.

Harry and Hermione answered at the same time, fingers pointing accusingly. "He did!"

They meant different things.

Ron merely raised a ginger brow.

Harry sighed. "Fine," he relented, tugging at his fringe. "I did. But I had good reason to!" His leg ached something fierce from the excitement of the afternoon.

He recounted the tale of his run-in with Burnbridge, Ron cursing sympathetically, Hermione tutting as she waved her wand to clean up after the slob she had married.

By the time he got to the bit that preceded his hasty departure from the Manor, Ron's sympathy ran dry.

"No, mate," he groaned with disbelief. "You didn't."

The bottom of Harry's stomach dropped out. If _Ron_ thought he was wrong...

With his back was against the wall, Harry had no option but to persist. "Well if Malfoy didn't tell Burnbridge about the clinic, who did?" he argued petulantly. "You're the only other people who know about it." It was far less unpleasant to consider his former tormenter the source of the leak than his dearest friends.

"Wasn't me," Ron maintained, holding his hands up in a show of innocence (and popping the last piece of croissant into his mouth while it was close).

"I certainly haven't said anything," Hermione echoed, gentler now, coming to sit beside her husband. "I know how important your job is to you."

Too right.

Harry went to the window, the concerned expressions he'd received a moment ago too much to bear. He focused instead on purple patches of heather amidst an unkempt green lawn, dotted here and there with the artefacts of Arthur's obsession: a rusty lawnmower, a tipped-over watering can, a motor of some sort. The sun was just beginning to go down in the western sky. Its heat radiated through the smudged glass, warming his face.

After losing the Aurors and much of his leg, he'd just about lost his mind along with them. His work was everything to him. It gave him meaning. Purpose.

"Maybe Burnbridge figured it out on his own," Ron suggested from behind him.

Harry scoffed. "Burnbridge couldn't figure his way out of a paper bag." He turned to face them once more; solving mysteries, he could handle. Much easier than having to face his own personal demons. Besides, it was old hat for the three of them.

Hermione nodded in agreement, curls bouncing with the motion. "His reports are all rubbish. Nothing but celebrity gossip and conspiracy theories with a distinct lack of verifiable facts. It's unlikely he could have discerned Harry's whereabouts on his own. Particularly since Harry apparates to and from work. He's nigh untraceable," she maintained.

That's what he'd thought, too.

But Malfoy'd found him, hadn't he? Though he didn't seem to have meant to, what if the Healer who'd referred him knew somehow? Malfoy claimed he was sent to Henry Collins on the basis of his exceptional reviews. It was true that Harry had made a bit of a name for himself in his field (rather literally, given his alias), but was his reputation so good that it would be apparent even to a wizard?

It was a lead that needed following.

He took up his usual spot on the mismatched furniture--the comfortably worn armchair adjacent to the sofa--and spent the better part of the night exchanging increasingly outlandish theories with the closest people he had to family. By the time Hermione begged off somewhere after midnight owing to an early case before the Wizengamot the next morning, they were nowhere nearer to solving the problem.

Only one thing was certain: he owed Malfoy an apology.

Even _Ron_ thought so.

Bugger.


	7. Chapter 7

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Harry's attempts at owl-correspondence with Malfoy were returned unopened. And he failed to show for a single appointment that week.

It was a small comfort that Burnbridge, at least, had made himself scarce, but guilt clawed at Harry unrelentingly.

As he disengaged the cables on the IFC machine following Adrian's session (performing the complicated task by muscle memory alone since his mind was otherwise engaged), he imagined Malfoy holed up in the Manor with no one but house-elves for company, gradually losing the strength and control he'd worked so hard to gain. Harry knew firsthand what that experience was like and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not even the blighter who'd ratted him out to the Press.

Who probably wasn't Malfoy, he'd come to admit, making him feel all the worse...

Harry sighed.

_If Malfoy refused to let him apologize, what else could he do? A fat load of nothing, that's what. He was trying, wasn't he? What more could anyone ask for?_

His stubborn conscience was unmoved by such logic.

Finished with the task at hand (but not his mental turmoil), Harry pushed the IFC trolley into the corner and made his way to the front of the clinic to pull Adrian's file for progress notes. The kid was doing well--with almost full mobility back in his leg, he'd be discharged soon and back on the court not long after that. Harry'd promised to come cheer for him at his next big game; Adrian said he'd hold him to it. (Because Harry was bloody decent, _see_?)

He opened the top drawer of the large black filing cabinet--metal cold from the air conditioner vent directly overhead--and rifled through its alphabetized contents in search of 'Allard, A.' His mind and conscience continued their tandem assault, as they had done every bloody night since The Incident; 'No rest for the wicked' proven to be all-too true.

Patient folder secured a minute later, Harry seated himself at the desk to jot a few quick notes and check his schedule for the remainder of the day.

Malfoy was his next appointment (which, of course, he'd known without looking) and he didn't have another one scheduled until 4pm, which meant he had _ages_ to try to fill with anything besides thinking about Malfoy.

It was a lost cause.

Rubbing his fists against eyelids that felt like sandpaper, Harry reckoned he was hardly any better than the people who'd rushed to accuse him of every wrongdoing for so much of his life: the Dursleys; the Press; the wizarding public; Malfoy, once upon a time; Snape (though his reasons were more complex). For all that they had made his days a living hell, they'd at least had _reasons_ to treat him so poorly. Shite ones, but reasons nonetheless. In _his_ case, he'd jumped to an awful conclusion based entirely on the way Malfoy had treated him a decade ago, with no thought given to how Malfoy had been since then.

There was also--and he really didn't like thinking about this--the distinct possibility it had been rather too convenient to reject Malfoy himself than risk the possibility of being rejected by someone he'd taken a bit too keen an interest in of late. (Hermione had _opinions_ on the subject of his love life...or lack there of.)

Harry chewed the edge of his thumbnail to a ragged mess as he pondered the unpleasant possibility, Adrian's file left forgotten before him.

Nancy had called that morning asking after her "favourite patient." When Harry failed to divine the identity of the person in question, she'd been shocked he didn't immediately know who she meant--apparently, the Malfoy who saw her for twice-weekly occupational therapy was both "charming" and "gracious" and worked harder than the rest of her patients combined. Harry felt a feeling that was suspiciously like missing when he recalled the way Malfoy used to lob insults at him from the exercise equipment (but more than likely was just discomfort over having lied to his colleague: "I dunno, Nance. He hasn't shown up for any of our appointments, either.").

Janine, as per usual, wasn't helping matters.

"What did you do?" she demanded accusingly, startling him from his musings and nearly causing him to upend half the items on the desk in the process.

"What are you on about?" he deflected (futilely), making sure Sarah's 'World's Greatest Receptionist' mug was safely out of harm's way. Janine was like a ruddy Crup when she had an idea in her head--eager, determined, and relentless. Harry appraised her warily. Her hands were firmly placed on her wide hips, elbows akimbo, brown eyes narrowed dangerously. All bad signs.

"Don't play dumb with me, Collins," Janine warned. "The best part of my Mondays isn't here and you've got 'it's all my fault' written all over your stupidly handsome face."

Harry didn't attempt to deny it. He knew it would be no use.

"I messed up," he admitted on an exhale, resigned to his fate.

Janine scoffed. "Tell me something I don't know."

Harry gave her a withering expression but she was unfazed.

"I insulted him," he elaborated, hoping to get the conversation done with as quickly as possible. And with a minimum of bloodshed.

Janine cocked an eyebrow. "Why." It was delivered as a statement so Harry didn't bother answering. He could tell Janine was busy coming up with her own explanation anyway. "It must have been an accident," she decided, attitude toward him softening upon determining his presumed innocence.

Harry wished it had been an accident. Maybe then he'd feel less guilty.

"No," he sighed. "It was intentional."

While that wasn't strictly-speaking true, it was close enough. Especially where Malfoy was concerned.

Janine's brows furrowed, her mouth pulling into a confused frown.

"He asked you out and you turned him down?" she guessed, sitting her prodigious, spandex-covered backside on the edge of the desk. "Why would you do that?"

At this point, Harry wondered if it would be easier to tell her the truth. The chair beneath him creaked as he leaned back to regain a bit of personal space.

"No, he didn't ask me out," he answered through gritted teeth (embarrassed at both the conversation and the tiny thrill Janine's idea had sparked). "I made an assumption about him that was wrong and he, very reasonably, took offense."

Janine tapped her lip thoughtfully. "It can't have been that he's gay," she stated, matter-of-fact. "He's even fancier than you. What in the world did you do, Henry?"

The tension headache that have been Harry's constant companion for 30 hours and counting throbbed angrily at the base of his skull.

"You know what?" he snapped, pushing himself up from the chair. "I'm done with this conversation."

Janine looked affronted.

"Fine, jump down my throat for being kind!" she huffed, standing as well and crossing her arms over her bright purple top (obscuring the phrase 'Cardio is Hardio'). "I was only trying to help, but that was obviously my mistake."

Harry briefly entertained the idea of storming off, but he quickly thought better of it. Janine, batty as she was, hadn't meant any harm. It wasn't fair to take his frustration out on her. Besides, she was a patient.

"Look," he said, by way of both explanation and apology, "I pissed him off and now he won't talk to me and that's the long and short of it." He sincerely hoped they both could leave it at that.

Janine considered him for a long minute. Harry fidgeted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

"You know what you need," she declared, mind apparently made up.

Harry was fairly certain that he was not going to agree with whatever came next.

"A grand romantic gesture!"

He was right.

Harry rolled his eyes so hard he was at risk of an ocular friction burn.

"We aren't dating," he insisted, exasperated, knowing full-well it would fall on deaf ears.

"Right. And I'm the Queen."

Maybe it wasn't too late to go back to school. Hermione could help him study. He could become a medical examiner--cadavers don't talk back or take offense or suggest the barmiest bloody ideas ever to be dreamt up...

What Harry said out loud was: I'll think on it. 


	8. Chapter 8

Despite his best attempts not to, Harry _did_ think about it. A good deal more frequently than he would like. And once the idea took hold, it began seeming... well, not entirely out of the question.

He wasn't considering anything romantic in the flowers and heart-shaped chocolates/boom-box-in-the-rain sense Janine probably had envisioned, but a grand gesture could be just the trick to finally getting through to Malfoy. He'd have an opportunity to put a chink in the man's notoriously impenetrable armour--one hopefully large enough to let him worm an apology through. Harry was reasonably sure that if said gesture involved his own discomfort, it stood a better chance of succeeding. 

If ever there was a time to pull out all the stops, it was now.

And that, more or less, was how he found himself shivering outside the Manor's gates in the murky time between days (where did one end and next begin, exactly?), blowing on fingers that were both numb and stinging from the combination of the damp cold and his several failed attempts to dismantle the wards keeping the wrought iron bars firmly shut.

They weren't as complex as the ones on the Manor itself, but they were still formidable--each successive generation of Malfoys adding another layer of ancient blood-bound protections to their predecessors'. And it had been some time since Harry'd attempted spellwork this intricate; the need didn't often present itself in his current occupation.

At any rate, he'd gone straight from work on Friday and spent the better part of the evening trying various ploys to be invited into the sprawling residence, to no avail. Malfoy house-elves were as tough as Gringotts goblins were security was concerned and the man of the house had remained stubbornly absent. The grumpy elf Harry met the day he'd cocked everything up popped over to check on him periodically but seemed content to sneer in response to his heartfelt requests for a brief audience with Malfoy (ostensibly reporting back to him about Harry's whereabouts).

Which is why Harry was now putting his rusty DMLE infiltration skills to the test.

"Bugger!" he yelped, as yet another blue shock lanced up his arm, only partially diffused by his weakening shield charm. He shook his hand out, trying to rid himself of the unpleasant pins-and-needles feeling.

He'd been on his feet for so long his leg felt close to giving out. But he was sure he was near a breakthrough--just a few minor adjustments to his lock-picking charm and he'd be in.

......

Or not.

Nearly an hour later, contemplating his injuries in the faint pre-dawn light, Harry wondered (not for the first time in his life) if perhaps he'd let his impulsiveness get the best of him. Possibly inspired by far too many sleepless nights, 'breaking into Malfoy's house to force an apology on him whether he liked it or not' mightn't have been one of his better ideas.

He was jarred from his thoughts by a sudden sound like the crack of a whip.

Big, round watery eyes stared up at him, set in a withered face that looked none too pleased.

"You is keeping Master Draco up with your unwelcome ruckus," the elf scolded sharply, leveling a gnarled finger at him. "You is to be going. Now."

Current evidence notwithstanding, Harry knew when to quit. He wasn't getting in tonight. And he was quite sure that if he continued trying, this particular house-elf would have no problem hexing him to kingdom come. So he tucked his wand into its holster and held his hands up in surrender.

"I'll stop troubling you then," he said affably. "I certainly don't want to disturb Master Draco's sleep!"

The elf gave a brief nod as if this was the first sensible thing Harry had said all night. His many wrinkles multiplied around a deep frown when Harry continued, however--

"When would be a good time to resume in the morning? 8:00? 9:00? I'm not familiar with Master Draco's schedule."

With a muttered curse and angry **pop** , the elf disappeared. Harry chuckled in spite of himself. Haranguing the staff probably wasn't going to win him any points with Malfoy, but that ruddy elf hadn't done him any favours all night.

Bumping his glasses up and palming the back of his stiff neck, Harry surveyed the options before him. At this point, sleep seemed to be the best course of action. Fortunately, years with Hermione had taught him to plan (and pack) for every possible scenario.

Harry reached into his backpack and pulled out a rumpled sleeping bag. He'd had worse beds than the Manor's plush lawn.

With half-hearted cushioning charm cast on the grounds, he settled in for a few hours' rest.

Hermione and Ron were under strict orders not to interfere, but they'd be sending a team of Aurors in to extract him if he failed to show up for a check-in breakfast on Monday prior to his shift in the clinic. That left just over 48 hours for Operation: Grand Gesture to succeed. The odds were looking worse by the minute, but Harry remained hopeful. He'd convinced Malfoy to give him a chance once already; he just might be able to do it again...

 

That was his last coherent thought before he was rudely awakened some hours later by a face-full of frigid water.

Spluttering and disoriented, Harry stumbled out of his sleeping bag and drew his wand on an unseen assailant.

...Which turned out to be nothing more an aguamenti charm, probably set to go off automatically every morning to keep the lawns looking so green.

Dragging a hand down his dripping face, Harry mentally prepared himself for the day ahead. If the last night and his subsequent rousing were any indication, it was going to be a long one.

As if confirming his suspicions, a robin seemed to chuckle at him from the branches up above.  

...

Hours passed. Not even a house-elf had visited to disrupt the monotony of Harry's failed foray into burglary. He was a good deal past 'frustrated' at this point: not only was he not making any progress on the wards, they seemed to have been increased at some point during his efforts.

He used to be _good_ at stuff like this--he had been one of the youngest recruits in the history of the DMLE, dammit. He wondered what else among his charms and spells had suffered from disuse, resolving to resume his Auror training regimen as soon as he got home. Which would hopefully be sooner rather than later.

After a light lunch of stale bread, hard cheese, and lukewarm pumpkin juice, Harry laid down in a bit of shade for a rest. He'd had a crap night of sleep (again) and had been working harder in the last 15 hours than he had since retiring from the force. He was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

 

And for the second time that day, he was awakened unexpectedly.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, Potter?"

Blearily Harry blinked up at the person-shaped silhouette looming above him as he fumbled for his glasses, the sun almost directly overhead.

Rising hastily and dusting himself off as best he could, he appraised the man standing on the other side of the still damnably locked gate.

Malfoy wore a thin-lipped frown and fetching ice-blue robes. The edges, Harry noted (for no reason in particular), were finely trimmed with silver embroidery.

"Potter?" Malfoy repeated, a hint of something beneath the impatience in the word. Concern, maybe.

"Oh right. Sorry!" Harry felt more unbalanced than he would have predicted now that he was finally face-to-face with the man he'd been trying to speak to for more than a week. "Hullo, Malfoy."

Malfoy blinked at him.

"'Hullo,'" he repeated dully. "' _Hullo_ '!" He threw his hands up as if in a prayer for patience. "You've literally been banging down my door to speak to me for hours and the best you can come up with is 'hullo'?! The tabloids are right, Potter--you're barking mad!"

Harry wisely refrained from commenting on the tabloids one way or another.

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy demanded.

"You haven't made it to any of your appointments," Harry replied. "This is a house call." He opened the backpack at his feet to reveal the rope ladder, deflated exercise ball, ankle and wrist weights, and assorted other bits of gear it contained. "A genuine one."

If Malfoy could arch his brows any higher, they might simply fly off his face.

"Also," Harry continued, straightening, "I owe you an apology."

That brought Malfoy's pale eyebrows back to a more normal position.

"Hm," was all he said in reply.

Steeling himself, Harry tried for a winsome smile. "Can I come in?"

Malfoy crossed his arms. "What will you do if I say no?"

Bugger. He wasn't going to make this easy.

Harry'd known that, of course, but he'd still entertained several fanciful scenarios in which it went rather differently. (And a few in which it went _very_ differently.)

"I've got buckets of unused vacation time," he replied, feigning at lightness. "Figure I'll just camp here on your drive."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

"You're not serious."

"Oh I'm completely serious."

"Then I'll call the DMLE and have you forcibly removed. I don't imagine _that_ will look particularly good in the papers."

No, it wouldn't.

"You're absolutely right you could," Harry replied, placating. "But I don't think you will."

"No? And why, pray tell, is that?"

Harry took a breath. "Because you want to get better," he said sincerely. "And you know I can help you. That fact kept you coming to see me in spite of how much you hated me to begin with. I'm fairly certain it can overcome me being a colossal wanker, as well.

"You've got all the time in the world to make your decision," he continued, "but just know that the longer it takes, the worse I'm going to smell. Because I'm not leaving until you do. And I haven't had a proper shower in two days, unless this morning when you watered your lawn counts."

Malfoy's face was unreadable--competing emotions chased their way across his sharp features so quickly Harry couldn't keep up.

Settling on something in the vicinity of annoyance, Malfoy pressed, "Why _have_ you been sleeping on my lawn? I get that you--for some  entirely misguided reason--thought that trying to break into my house was a good idea, but why _sleep_ here? You could've gone home last night and returned in the morning if you were so dead set on continuing this foolishness."

Of all the questions Malfoy could have asked, that, at least, was an easy one.

"You've been trapped in your house because of what I did," Harry answered honestly. "I figured it wasn't fair for me to get to go home to mine until I at least tried to make it right."

Malfoy, after having stiffened at the first of Harry's words, relaxed infinitesimally.

"You're not going to quit, are you?"

"Nope," Harry grinned.

Malfoy relented on a sigh and said, more to himself than to Harry, "I always knew you were a nutter. I tried convincing everyone in school but for some reason they wouldn't believe me."

Harry gave a lopsided smile, feeling oddly buoyant over the fact Malfoy was making fun of him again. "It's part of my charm."

Malfoy smothered a laugh. Harry was just about to jog a victory lap when the other man's expression turned hard.

"When I met you as a patient, you told me I had to trust you, and then you betrayed that trust."

Harrys stomach lurched. About that...

"You're absolutely right," he replied, not trying to defend his behaviour. It was inexcusable.

Malfoy watched him expectantly.

"I'm not going to try to justify it," Harry went on. "I was inappropriate and out of line. I shouldn't've accused you, and I definitely shouldn't've come to your home to do it. I was wrong. And I'm sorry."

Malfoy appeared to weigh the veracity of his claims. His final verdict:

"That wasn't half bad."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle. "I had some practice what with all those letters I tried sending you this past week," he replied.

Malfoy made a noncommittal sound, but Harry was encouraged by the fact his frown wasn't quite so frown-y. It was more of a 'this-is-how-my-face-is-used-to-looking' frown.

"I've finally figured out how you managed to defeat the Dark Lord," Malfoy remarked, apropos of nothing.

Harry waited to see where this was going.

"You irritated him to death."

Harry barked a laugh, feeling warm down to his toes. (Must be the noonday sun, he thought.)

"That's at least partially true," he agreed in good humour.

Malfoy's lips twitched. "You're not off the hook yet," he warned.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry replied.

And Malfoy unlocked the gate.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New year, new chapter! Happy 2018, my friends!

The long walk up to the Manor proper gave Harry the perfect opportunity for a covert assessment. He noted absently that the fat little robin that had been keeping him company flew in ahead of them. Had the wards kept him out, as well? Harry wondered if they were set to prevent common wildlife from entering (and thereby sullying) the Manor's hallowed grounds and decided not to tell Malfoy about this other unwelcome visitor. He rather liked the cheeky bird.

Back to the man in question. Malfoy was trying to hide his limp, as he did most days, but there was no mistaking the heaviness of his right step. Harry's own limp was in full force after the activities of the last many hours, though his favoured the left-side. Quite the pair they made.

Er...except that...no. They did not.

Malfoy wore his hair swept to the side, longish fringe hanging over one eye. Harry thought it had been done in an effort to obscure the asymmetry now present in what had once been Malfoy's arguably perfect Pureblood visage. The result of a mild-to-moderate deterioration in his craniofacial musculature, it was especially noticeable to someone who'd spent as much time looking at Malfoy as him. (Back when the Slytherin had been getting up to all that suspicious business in sixth year, of course; not for any other reasons.)

Harry cleared his throat.

Malfoy had obviously put effort into his appearance. His robes were fine. Sumptuous ice blue fabric with silver embroidery at the edges, flat-fronted and neat at the waist--they made him look like a porcelain doll. His hair was sleek and shinny and his face appeared freshly scrubbed. Harry felt shabby and self-conscious in comparison.

"Checking for weapons, Potter?" Malfoy asked sarcastically.

Harry faltered, looking even more guilty in his stammering denial.

"I just haven't seen you in robes in a while," he finally managed. "You look good."

Malfoy lifted his chin. "Robes or no, I _always_ look good."

Harry rather agreed. The thing was, he wasn't convinced Malfoy believed his own boast.

"True enough," he granted, causing Malfoy to falter for once. Point, Harry.

Conversation with Malfoy was a lot like Quidditch. Or perhaps a wizard's duel. Either way, Harry often felt he was losing and that the stakes were very, very high. But with renewed determination (owing to the fact he'd convinced the man to at least give him another chance), he pressed on.

"How are you doing, physically? Have you kept up with any of your exercises?"

Malfoy sighed. "I have tried. But it is difficult to find the motivation to really exert myself on my own. Particularly because it seems like wasted effort."

"But it's not wasted!" Harry insisted, turning towards him, barely resisting the urge to reach out for him. "Think of all the progress you've been making! You can run a mile on the treadmill now and you're doing great on the stairs and you're up to the 15kg dumbbell for most of the routine with your right arm--"

"And as soon as I quit, I'll lose it all," Malfoy interrupted, sounding bitter and defeated. "Until someday I have to choose between living out my miserable days strapped to a wheelchair with the house-elves spoon feeding me puréed meals or hoping I can get my hands on a proper poison because Salazar knows I won't be able to brew one at that point."

Harry was no stranger to the morbid. His education had included thorough training on the assessment of and the referral and treatment process for suicidal ideation (not uncommon in someone dealing with disability) and his own life had led him to some...dark places. But he'd never heard someone speak so cavalierly about their fate. It was unnerving.

"So don't quit, you great git," he retorted simply, for want of anything better to say.

Malfoy paused, considering. He then inclined his head a fraction of an inch.

Score two for Harry.

......

What felt like an eternity later, they stood on the enormous home's front doorstep. Malfoy reached for the ornate handle, then hesitated.

Turning to Harry, he blurted, "I know why you would have rushed to accuse me ten years ago but why on earth would you do it now? What did you think I stood to gain from sending the papers after you?"

A fresh wave of guilt flooded through Harry.

"Thinking didn't have a whole lot to do with it," he admitted, much to his chagrin. "It was a knee-jerk reaction."

Malfoy looked pointedly at him. Harry tried not to squirm.

"Figures," Malfoy muttered, shaking his head in exasperation (at whom, Harry wasn't sure). "You're a Gryffindor, after all."

"For better _and_ for worse," Harry agreed ruefully.

Apparently having made up his mind, Malfoy opened the door and ushered him in. With only a small twinge of apprehension, Harry stepped through and entered Malfoy Manor.

Malfoy waited unobtrusively as he did a visual sweep of the grand entryway (noting points of egress, potential hazards, and which antique furniture would provide the best cover...because old habits die hard).

The Manor was different than Harry remembered it. Still cavernous. Cold. Absolutely dripping with valuables. (There was enough gold in the fixtures alone to make a dragon jealous.) But where it had been library-quiet the few times Harry had visited in the past, an almost perfect silence permeated it now. And if he wasn't mistaken, several portraits were missing from the walls.

It was eerie. Lonely.

"Is it just you and the house-elves here?" he asked.

Malfoy nodded. "I don't expect Mother to return from her 'holiday' anytime soon. It's been eight years."

Well.

Unable to come up with a proper reply, Harry let the pregnant pause expand to fill the space, hoping it would eventually dissipate enough for them to move on (much like the awful ringing aftereffects of a _Reducto_ ). He was grateful when Malfoy was the first to break the silence.

"Do you have any other suspects?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Not at the moment," Harry said, satisfied with his inspection and turning his attention fully to Malfoy. "I've been somewhat… _preoccupied_ of late."

Malfoy looked as though this pleased him. His expression didn't change, per se, but there was some subtle current beneath it that Harry picked up on.

"Do tell if you figure it out." Malfoy's affected air of nonchalance wasn't quite convincing, not even to Harry. "I am rather interested in knowing."

"Yeah. Of course," Harry promised readily, putting his hands in his pockets to hide how twitchy he was beginning to feel. Standing around and simply chatting with Malfoy was uncharted territory. He was employing a strategy of agreeing to as much as he possibly could without compromising his morals or position at the clinic. It seemed to be working so far.

Apparently reading Harry's thoughts (shit--could he do that?), Malfoy pointed sharply at him. "I am still mad at you," he declared, even but firm, forestalling the development of any notions to the contrary. "Furious, actually."

Harry took a moment to clear his mind of all potentially-incriminating images. Just in case.

"You've every right to be," he responded mildly. "I just hope I can make it up to you."

Malfoy's expression said plainly he didn't believe that was possible.

"And how, pray tell, do you propose to do that?"

Harry hadn't actually gotten that far in the plan. Especially not now that he was employing his occlumency lessons to shield some of his more incriminating thoughts from Malfoy.

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Besides coming to do your physiotherapy here? I'm rather short on ideas. But I'm open to suggestions!" he added hastily.

Harry wasn't sure he liked the glint that sparked in Malfoy's quicksilver eyes (though his cock, ever the optimist, was encouraged by it).

Malfoy cupped his own chin and tapped his pursed lips with his index finger, apparently considering.

"As you so astutely pointed out," he drawled eventually, "I don't get out much and I find myself wanting for good company of late." Here he paused to eye Harry critically. "I _suppose_ you'll do."

_Careful Harry,_ his inner voice strongly cautioned.  _Absolutely no jumping to conclusions. Ask a clarifying question._

Harry was proud to have kept his voice from shaking. Much. "I'll 'do' for what, exactly?"

Malfoy was clearly enjoying his discomfort and his smile had a hard edge to it when he replied, "In addition to providing me with my physiotherapy sessions, you may attend me at my meals, escort me on errands, and see to whatever of my needs may arise that are...less suitable for house-elves to address."

Was it Harry's imagination or had Malfoy's voice gone deeper at the end? Sweat broke out on his temples.

"Are you asking me to move in with you?" he croaked.

Malfoy smirked and crossed his arms loosely before him, looking for all the world like a kneazle with a mouse between its paws.

"No," he said, drawing the word out silkily. "I am inviting you to atone for your misdeeds with service. You'd be a sort of butler. Or _manservant_." He wasn't even bothering to hide his evil glee now.

And suddenly it all made sense: Harry was being tested. Malfoy wanted to know how far he could be pushed.

Well then.

Harry licked his lips and took a fortifying breath. "I'm not opposed to the idea," he said carefully, "but I won't quit my job for this. How are nights and weekends for you?"

Malfoy looked calculating. "What about all that vacation time you threatened me with earlier?" he retorted blithely.

"Oh I was bluffing," Harry said with a shameless grin, earning a single dry chuckle for his honesty.

"Of course you were."

Malfoy held Harry's stare for the span of several heartbeats (more beats than usual in the present circumstances).

"Very well," he said decisively. "I accept your terms."

Oh Merlin, Harry thought with dawning dread. What had he gotten himself into now?


End file.
